


Fireplace

by stepOnMeZenos



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Burns, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't copy to another site, Fire, Gen, Mutilation, Religious Fanaticism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepOnMeZenos/pseuds/stepOnMeZenos
Summary: Charibert loves his work.





	Fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you show me Christmas prompts while I have Charibert on my mind.
> 
> In my defense, I asked beforehand.

The fire crackled.

Charibert closed his eyes and savoured the sound for a moment. He would never tire of it. Flames licking across the fuel he provided, consuming it whole to sustain itself, no matter what it was that he tossed into it. It provided warmth and light to those around it, and it cleansed what needed cleansing. Such a marvel it was, the element of fire. Such a marvel. 

The fearful whimper of the heretic strung up off to the side jarred him out of his reverie, and he turned his head to frown at him. If the mere site of the First Inquisitor with his tools was enough to bring him to this state, breaking him would be a trivial matter. This was not, by itself, something that Charibert should or would complain about out-loud, but it was so _disappointing_ when they didn't last long, when he had to cut the proceedings short before he'd tried out all the things he'd wanted to. 

Having his full attention appeared to terrify the heretic even more. He shrank back in his chains, his unkempt filthy hair swaying as if there was a breeze as he frantically shook his head. “Ser Ch-Charibert, please I—I didn't do anything, you have to believe me—“

Charibert did not grace the inane yammering with a response. How woefully misguided they all were, to think that he would listen to the words of dirty sinners. The Fury Herself guided his hands, so that he might purge the illness that afflicted Her city. How could his judgement possibly be wrong? 

The heretic's eyes widened even further when a tiny flame appeared in front of his face, close enough to feel the heat without being burned. Charibert had long since stopped needing incantations for this type of fire. It was trivial to conjure if one knew it as intimately as he. 

Sweat trickled down the heretic's face, likely both from the heat and his own fear. That look of primal fear, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, his lips parted as he gasped for breath; oh, such a wonderful expression. Charibert smiled. The heretic squeezed his eyes shut (which made for just as good a sight) and let out a strangled whine. 

“You,“ Charibert said, “are a man afflicted with a sickness, an infection that has taken root inside of you. Do you understand this?“

“No! I swear I didn't do it! I swear in Halone's na—“ A very brief, _very_ hot flash inside of his mouth quieted the heretic. It didn't last long enough to take his tongue—Charibert wasn't enough of an amateur to allow for that—but it served well as a warning.

“Do not presume to speak Her name, _heretic_.“ Charibert paused, and when the heretic didn't resume his blaspheming, he continued: “I asked you a very simple question, did I not? All I want to know—all I'm asking of you—is whether you know what kind of taint lurks beneath your filthy hide.“ 

“Mylord, I—I don't know what—“

“So you would deny it,“ Charibert said. It was hardly unexpected. None of them ever had the grace to confess and accept their penance. And yet, he could not deny that it thrilled him every time to learn that he would be able to perform his duty once more. 

The flames in the hearth behind him flared up.

He could feel a smile spreading across his face as he leisurely strolled behind the heretic, who tried to turn his head to keep him in his field of vision but was hindered by his bindings. As soon as he could no longer see Charibert, he resumed his thrashing.

“Such an unruly fellow have they sent me this time. I will find much joy in breaking you, oh yes, I will…“ Charibert conjured a tiny flame and lightly traced it across the heretic's back. It was but a taste of what was to come; superficial burns that would hardly even require medical attention on their own, nothing more, but they were a superb way of getting his charge into the right mindset from the first.

Namely, filled with a rising terror. 

The heretic tried to twist away from the heat within the narrow confines of his shackles and on a whim, Charibert let him. Allowing them to believe they had any control over the situation only to take it away again was a very efficient tool. He listened to the heretic's gasps—a sound almost as sweet as the crackling of flames—for a while without moving or speaking, then retrieved a firepoker from a nearby table. Metal clanked against wood, and the heretic stiffened. 

“Do you know the difference between the types of burns?“ Charibert asked. No answer came. “The least severe type only affects the very top layers of your skin. 'Tis akin to a sunburn, not that you're like to catch one of those with the way Ishgard is now. Painful as it may be, it will heal on its own. What I just did inflicted this type on you.“

He slid the firepoker into the fireplace behind himself, making sure to clank it against the stone. The heretic whimpered, and sweat ran down his back. 

“Apply a little more heat and the burn will be less superficial. It will hurt a great deal more and take longer to heal, but heal it will, though you may need some amount of medical assistance. Shall we see if this is hot enough to cause one of these already?“

He retrieved the poker and, accompanied by the heretic's frantic “No“s and “Stop“s, pressed it into his shoulder. The effect was quite spectacular. The heretic howled and thrashed, desperately trying to get away, but this time Charibert did not allow it until he felt that it was enough. After removing the poker again, he examined the heretic's back. A bright red dot graced his shoulder. “Yes, I do believe this is a wound of that type.“

The heretic had hurt himself while flailing, he observed as he placed the poker back into the fire. Blood dripped down the shackles around his wrist, but it didn't seem so much as to endanger his life. Good. He hated having to interrupt his ministrations for petty reasons. 

“It hurts a fair bit, doesn't it? You'll be pleased to hear that the next—I'm trying to teach you something here. Kindly be more quiet. There will be plenty of opportunity to scream later.“ 

Predictably, this did not do anything to deter the heretic from screaming. Charibert tsk'ed. It seemed that knowledge of all the beautiful things fire could do was lost on this cretin. A shame. But if he didn't want to learn, there was nothing to be done about it. And so, without any further instructions, he conjured another flame, far bigger than the last one, right on top of his bare leg. Shrill shrieks echoed off the stone walls. Charibert closely examined the fire eating away at his flesh and extinguished it when it had had the desired effect. 

“Now, this is quite painful, but you may notice that the core of the burn doesn't hurt all that much, only the areas around it. No? So unobservant. I've burnt you deeply enough that it has seared away the very sensation there. But let us return to the previous type. I find it so much more pleasant to inflict.“ Charibert picked up the firepoker once more and pressed it into the heretic's other shoulder. The previous wound was blistering red and oozed liquid, he observed with a smile. A sight most welcome indeed.

The heretic's continued thrashing caused the firepoker to slip from its place on his skin and slide diagonally down his back. Without pressure and significant exposure it wouldn't burn as deeply, but it left a most attractive red line that Charibert mirrored starting from the other shoulder before putting the poker back for reheating. 

“No, please, please stop...“ the heretic sobbed. 

“Now, this isn't _all_ fire is good for. It has its application in stemming bleeding when no other method is available or desired. Shall I give you an example?“ A flame enveloped the heretic's left index finger and followed his every movement when he flailed his hand around. Charibert had to take a step back to avoid getting smacked, so out of control was he. The flame, meanwhile, ate its way through skin first, then though flesh, and then after Charibert made it flare up hotter and hotter, through bone, leaving behind nothing but a charred stump where a healthy finger had been but moments ago. 

“See? It doesn't bleed at all. Very useful, don't you think?“ Charibert moved over to the heretic's other side and peered into his face. Tears dripped from his chin and his eyes were wide and filled with delicious terror. “Now won't you confess your wrongdoings?“

“But I didn't do it… Let me go, let me go please...“

Charibert shook his head. “Are you so incorrigible? Very well. You have nine other fingers, after all.“

In the end, it took only three more, picked out at random. Between all the other gibbering nonsense the heretic spouted, Charibert clearly made out confessions of having blasphemed the Fury, of having desecrated Her sacred spaces, of worshipping the dragons in Her place. Vile, terrible deeds, all of them. It was moments like this when Charibert was most aware of why he did what he did. Ishgard had to be cleansed of this filth. It could not, _would_ not be allowed to remain and further besmirch the Fury. 

Having wrought a confession out of the heretic, there was no cause to continue. It was imperative that this lowlife was brought to justice as soon as possible, and yet… Charibert tipped his skin up. This was not, strictly speaking, a part of his duty, but nor would anyone frown upon him doing it. 

And oh, it was so enjoyable to turn up the temperature inside the heretic's mouth, to go from a gentle, perhaps even pleasant warmth to an uncomfortable heat to an agonising inferno. Screams that stopped abruptly when Charibert directed the fire into the heretic's vocal chords, careful not to burn anything vital—he was not, after all, an executioner, and he was not called to snuff out his charges' lives. When he pried the heretic's mouth open, all that remained was a charred mass. Satisfied, Charibert nodded. 

The heretic could not be allowed to utter Her name ever again. That, too, was part of his duty as an instrument of Her will.

**Author's Note:**

> Charibert is way too much fun to write. Help.


End file.
